'
He looked down at her critically.
'I don't want you to HELP,' he said, slightly irritated, 'because
there's nothing to be DONE. I only want sympathy, do you see: I want
somebody I can talk to sympathetically. That eases the strain. And
there IS nobody to talk to sympathetically. That's the curious thing.
There IS nobody. There's Rupert Birkin. But then he ISN'T sympathetic,
he wants to DICTATE. And that is no use whatsoever.'
She was caught in a strange snare. She looked down at her hands.
Then there was the sound of the door softly opening. Gerald started. He
was chagrined. It was his starting that really startled Gudrun. Then he
went forward, with quick, graceful, intentional courtesy.
'Oh, mother!' he said. 'How nice of you to come down. How are you?'
The elderly woman, loosely and bulkily wrapped in a purple gown, came
forward silently, slightly hulked, as usual. Her son was at her side.
He pushed her up a chair, saying 'You know Miss Brangwen, don't you?'
The mother glanced at Gudrun indifferently.
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